


this is how galaxies collide

by beeeskneees



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alien Sherlock, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Fluff and Smut, John is a Horndog, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV John Watson, Rimming, Sherlock is a non-binary humanoid alien, Sherlock is so tiny, alienlock, but John doesn't always see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeskneees/pseuds/beeeskneees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It suddenly struck John that he wasn’t looking at a man at all.  John started to lower his gun slowly.  He was looking at an alien.  That must have been it.  A very hot alien, in fact.  John quirked an eyebrow up as he blatantly stared at the figure in front of him.  By human standards, they were indeed attractive, and John couldn’t help but take notice.</p><p>He licked his lips.  “Hello there,” he murmured.</p><p>---</p><p>Or, how Sherlock crash-lands in the middle of the rainforest and is discovered by John, resident caretaker of a research base out there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll update this work next Tuesday!
> 
> *** I've received a few comments about the use of gender-neutral pronouns for Sherlock, and essentially Sherlock's species of alien is non-binary, meaning that traditional she/he pronouns don't fit and instead 'they' is used.

John had been working at El Panadero Biological Research Station for nearly a year now, and there were some things that were just impossible to get used to. For example, the mantled howler monkeys that lived out in the adjacent forest that decided to start shouting at half past four every morning just outside his window.

John shoved his pillow over his ears, but that did little to block out their loud, gravelly barking. He was sure that the primatologists that used the base for their research absolutely adored waking up to the monkeys every morning, but John, who had a hard enough time sleeping with his nightmares, hated it.

He could hear the researchers waking up in the rooms below him. The floors and walls were thin enough that he could even make out the sound of their suitcases zipping up. By lunchtime, there would have been absolutely no traces of them left in the place.

There were benefits to being the caretaker of a research station that was only used for five months out of the year. Once the primatologists left, John had the entire place to himself. Twelve hectares of forest, all for him.

When he’d first taken the job, Harry had told him that he’d hate the solitude. “It’s out in the middle of nowhere with no Internet, no telly, no radio. It’s a good thing you don’t have a family with you, or I’d worry this would end up like _The Shining_ ,” she’d said.

“I can handle being on my own,” John had told her, and he’d been right.

He actually hated it when there were other people staying there. They all felt awkward around the English caretaker with a bad leg. He wasn’t good at maintaining the trails because his cane made it difficult to navigate through the mud and branches. He couldn’t think of creative enough meals to cook for them—not to mention the fact that he hated cooking for so many strangers—so he often had to bring in people from the nearby “village” to help. He wasn’t much good at being a caretaker, but they all felt so sorry for him that they never really commented on it. John hated it, but he supposed it kept him with a job and from being forced to move back to his shitty London bedsit.

Breakfast was served every morning at seven o’clock. By nine, John would be blissfully alone in the rainforest, and he wouldn’t be bothered with another living soul for months.

He shoveled some rice and beans on his plate and listened to the primatologists talk about how they wanted to go on one last walk through the forest before departing. John wished they would just leave, but he couldn’t say as much without risking his job.

“Oh, John,” one of the researchers said, “you’ll have to come with us! You’re so good at spotting the capuchins.” She was the kind of woman he’d have gone after in his younger years. Adventurous, soft, traditionally pretty. For some reason, though, he couldn’t bring himself to pursue her. She seemed too much like the civilian life he was desperate to get away from.

John gave her a tight smile and decided that he’d get his trail maintenance out of the way early. “Yeah,” he said, “all right.”

The group split up into two smaller parties out in the forest. With no other way of communicating, they exchanged occasional hoots as they progressed along different trails.

Sarah—the pretty female researcher—was chatting with John about what she was going to do when she returned to London when their group was stopped by the sound of two hoots in quick succession.

“Was that a bird, or was that the others?” Sarah asked, as if she didn’t already know the sound of every bird in the forest.

“That was the others,” John told her. “Two hoots—they found something.”

The rest of the group made to turn back to join up with their colleagues and whatever monkeys they had found.

When Sarah realised that John wasn’t following her, she turned to him, brow furrowed. “Aren’t you coming?”

John shook his head. “I’m going to clear away some of that debris that’s blocking the end of this trail.” He patted the machete on his hip. Sarah looked torn, so he added, “Go enjoy your last half hour with the monkeys. I’ll see you off in an hour.”

Sarah seemed reluctant, but she eventually nodded and left with the rest of the researchers.

On his own now, John continued up the trail, trying his best not to get his cane stuck in the thick mud that covered the ground. It took him twice as long as it would have taken anyone else to reach the debris on the trail, but he got there eventually and was quick to cut away the vines and branches that had blocked the path. He was just about to turn back when he heard something.

It was a loud crack, like a tree falling. Except, well, trees normally fell during storms, and there wasn’t even the slightest hint of wind right then. He could hear howlers barking in the distance, likely upset at the disturbance to their mid-morning nap. There was something else beyond that, though, something that sounded almost…metallic. It couldn’t have been. There was no man-made structure out in the forest aside from the house he and the researchers stayed in.

He heard a hoot off to his left, and he called back to indicate his position.

There was another hoot farther ahead of him, right where the tree had fallen.

It might have been a bird, but just like when Sarah had suggested it, he knew that there were no birds that made that sort of noise in the forest. No, that was a human call.

John’s heart pounded in his chest. His hand hovered over the handle of his machete. He hooted again and heard the expected response from his right and the unexpected response from ahead. That wasn’t possible. The researchers were all bound to be in one group now that they’d found monkeys, and there was no one else permitted in the forest.

He resisted the urge to seek out the site of the fallen tree. It was likely in the middle of the dense forest, and his presence was needed back at the main house shortly for the departure of the primatologists.

With great reluctance, he turned around and headed back toward the main house.

Oddly enough, his limp was barely noticeable then.

\---

He went out the next day on his own. Everyone else had left El Panadero, so now he had the freedom to do things a bit outside of his normal duties. He took his machete as well as his gun—a token from his army days that was useful, if not strictly legal.

When he got to the first split between two paths, he cupped his hands around his mouth and hooted loudly, hoping that whoever was out there would give a response as they had done the day before. He wasn’t disappointed.

 _Hoo_ , he heard from his left. That particular trail ended abruptly at the edge of the river, and the dead-end would allow John to confront whoever was out there without the possibility of their escape.

Taking care to keep his tread light, John slowly crept down the trail, one hand on his gun. He scanned the area the same way the primatologists did when they were looking for monkeys, though he kept his gaze lower to catch his more terrestrial target. He walked that whole trail in the same, slow fashion, and yet he still managed to reach the river’s edge without finding anything. He wondered if perhaps whoever had been there had gotten spooked and jumped in the river, but they’d have never been able to handle the currents. There was no other possible explanation, John thought, and he was oddly disappointed that his opponent had made such a stupid decision as to try to survive the river.

A monkey howled in the tree directly above him, and John briefly glanced up at it, only to whip out his gun when he saw a man apparently trying to climb up to tree to get to the howler. The intruder had painted his skin blue and purple and green and had attached what appeared to be antennae to his head. He also seemed to be naked, though with the way his legs were wrapped around the tree trunk, it was difficult to tell.

“Get down from there, or I will shoot!” John shouted.

The creature merely scampered up the tree a little higher, and the monkeys jumped over to the next tree to avoid the intrusion, howling relentlessly all the while. The man in the tree tried howling back at them, but the howlers continued hopping trees until they were on the other side of the river. The man stared after them with awe in his expression, seemingly enraptured by the movement of the animals.

In the absence of the distraction, John put a little more command in his voice and again growled, “Get down from the tree.”

The blue-green-purple man, looking a little more blue and green right then, obediently shuffled down the tree trunk until he landed softly on the ground. He then stepped out onto the path across from John, staring in obvious curiosity at John’s gun.

It suddenly struck John that he wasn’t looking at a man at all. The colouring in this creature’s skin pulsed continuously in a way that no paint could mimic. Likewise, the antennae twitched around in every direction in very organic movements. And then there was the fact that, yes, this creature was indeed naked, only there was a distinct lack of primary or secondary sex characteristics. Their body was smooth and hairless, save for their eyebrows and what was on their head. Their eyes were wide and grey. They were, above all, clearly not human.

John started to lower his gun slowly. He was looking at an alien, he knew. That must have been it. A very hot alien, in fact. John quirked an eyebrow up as he blatantly stared at the figure in front of him. By human standards, they were indeed attractive, and John couldn’t help but take notice.

He licked his lips. “ _Hello_ there,” he murmured.

There was no response.

John frowned. “Can you understand me at all?”

The alien’s antennae twitched forward in John’s direction, but other than that, there was no indication that his words had even been heard.

“Of course you don’t speak English,” he muttered. “Not sure what else I expected.” And then, because the alien didn’t seem to want to hurt him, he found himself adding, “Follow me, then.”

The alien seemed to understand that instruction, as they trotted along at John’s side the entire way back to the main house.

John didn’t realise until much later that he’d left his cane behind on the bank of the river, where it was swept away in the current.

\---

There was no electric kettle at the research base, so John had to make do with the stovetop one that had been provided. Hot tea was rarely the sort of thing one craved in the Tropics, but it would be familiar enough to keep him sane as he tried to process what was happening.

The alien scurried off into one of the rooms, and John let them go, figuring that they would want to explore the place before settling down. Later, though, he would have to double-check all the rooms to make sure they weren’t laying eggs in a bed or something. He’d surely lose this job if alien larvae started hatching while the researchers were attempting to conduct their work.

The harsh whistle of the kettle startled him out of his thoughts. Before John could even step back into the kitchen to pull it off the stove, the alien came running in from wherever they had gone.

They had put on clothes that must have been stashed in one of the bedrooms. Slender black trousers that might have belonged to a very tall woman and a pale green button-up field shirt that appeared to be a size too small. They stood there, newly dressed and barefoot, staring at John intently. Then, they started to whistle.

John frowned, wondering what this attempt at communication was supposed to convey.

The alien seemed to grow frustrated when John didn’t respond as expected before appearing to realise that it wasn’t John that was making the noise. They shuffled forward into the kitchen and tried whistling back at the kettle, but when the pitch of the answering sound never varied, they became noticeably agitated.

John almost felt bad when he took the kettle off the stove and poured the water over the teabag that was settled in his mug.

“I’d offer you some, but I’m worried I might inadvertently end up killing you if I do,” John said, and the alien merely gave what appeared to be aggravated clicks in reply. “What’s gotten you so upset? Are you mad that I took your friend away?” He laughed lightly but had to admit that it had been rather cute watching them try to communicate with boiling water.

The alien apparently knew that they were being laughed at, because they narrowed their grey eyes and reached out to snatch the teabag right out of John’s mug. Without even pausing to consider, they stuffed the teabag in their mouth, chewed, and swallowed it.

John shook his head but couldn’t help smiling as he did so. “You’re ridiculous,” he told them. “And I certainly hope that’s not poisonous to you, or you’re in deep trouble. I may be a doctor, but dealing with extraterrestrial species might be a little too much for even me to handle.”

The alien studied John’s face for a moment before grinning. It looked a bit like someone who had never smiled before was trying to imitate human emotion while in a massive amount of discomfort. All in all, it was a bit disconcerting, and John stopped smiling. The alien’s smile dropped as well. Their skin then lost its blue-purple-green hue and instead became suffused with a lighter version of John’s own colouring.

“You’re trying to mimic me,” John said in awe, resisting the urge to reach out and touch that changeable skin. Like that, they looked almost entirely human, save for the antennae, and John didn’t feel half as bad as he had before for finding them attractive (though, to be honest, he hadn’t felt very bad about it at all to begin with). “Incredible,” he breathed, and the alien seemed to know that they were being complimented judging by the way their cheeks glowed green right then.

\---

From that point on, John was hooked. Hell, he had probably been hooked since their first interaction. The alien showed no signs of wanting to leave, and John certainly didn’t want them to go.

That first morning after they’d followed John back to the main house, he’d woken to find them standing at the foot of his bed at half past four, just when the howlers were giving their morning calls.

John jumped, not used to seeing another person in his room, and fought the ridiculous urge to cover himself up. He was glad he didn’t sleep totally naked. “Christ,” he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “This is generally considered to be a bit not good.” The noise of the howlers in the background died down. John pointed toward the door. “Go occupy yourself with something else for a few more hours. I’m going back to sleep.”

He didn’t bother staying awake long enough to see whether or not they truly left the room. Either way, he slept more soundly that night than he’d ever done before, reassured with the fact that something interesting was actually happening to him.

\---

“I see you’ve found the fruit,” John commented as he walked into the kitchen hours later. He looked around the room. “And the library, apparently.”

The alien was sitting on the counter trying to bite into the side of a watermelon, but their teeth didn’t seem capable of piercing the exterior. There were books and papers from the station’s “library” scattered about. Nearly every text was about the monkeys endemic to the adjacent forest, and every one was written in English, but by the looks of it, the alien had tried to read them all.

John took the watermelon from them and pulled out a knife to start slicing it up. He handed a large piece back over to them, and they let out what sounded almost like a mechanical whir. John watched them with a fond smile as they bit into the watermelon properly this time and chirped happily with every bite.

John could already feel himself getting addicted to this ridiculous creature.

\---

It was much later before he managed to motivate himself to go back out into the forest to finish the trail maintenance he’d failed to complete during the two previous days. Luckily, as soon as he put his rain boots on, the alien slipped on a pair that had been left behind by someone else, clearly intent on joining him. John simply smiled encouragingly in response to that.

“There’s three types of monkeys that live around here,” John told them as they made their way down one of the easier trails. He found that hiking along it was much less time-consuming in the absence of his limp. “You’ve got spider monkeys, white-faced capuchins, and mantled howlers.”

The alien seemed to recognise that last word, because they gave a loud, imitative howl in response to it.

John winced. “Don’t do that.”

There was a chain of answering howls from among the trees.

Sensing that perhaps they would want to climb up to get to the howlers again, John added, “And don’t even think about climbing up another tree. I’m not going to get you down. I’ll just let the monkeys have you.”

The alien gave an irritated click and crossed their arms. John was amazed at the way they seemed to understand him after less than twenty-four hours together. He was also rather surprised at some of the body language similarities across their different species.

John was forced to pause them briefly in their hike to cut away some vines with his machete. The alien’s eyes lit up, and their skin—now apparently permanently that pale imitation of John’s own—flushed a momentary blue. They reached out and snatched the machete from John’s hands, swinging it out to chop down a few more unnecessary branches.

“Enough of that,” John snapped, wrestling the blade away from the alien. “Is everyone in your species such a handful?” Even as he said it, though, he knew that he wouldn’t trade this for anything. Meeting them had been the best thing that had ever happened to him since returning from war. He let out a slightly disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “This is an insane situation. I’m bickering with an alien who can’t even speak my language.”

They simply looked at him, brow furrowed.

“I’m going to end up getting tired of the sound of my own voice,” John said, feeling that already happening. “Until you learn to speak English, you might just need to deal with a bit of silence from me.”

The alien looked back at him, blinked, and then said, “All right.”

John nearly walked into a tree. “You can speak,” he said slowly.

“Brilliant deduction, John.” They rolled their eyes, but John was too distracted to be offended at the sass. Their voice was deep. Startlingly deep, especially compared to those high clicks and whistles that had come before. As if reading his mind, they added, “I know my voice is deeper than would be expected for my previous vocalizations, but do try not to stare so blatantly.” Their skin started to look a little green, now having the same hue as a human getting cartoonishly seasick.  

“It’s just a bit shocking, is all,” John said once he regained control of himself. He didn’t bother trying not to stare.

Then, in a perfect imitation of John’s voice, the alien said, “I can modify it if it’s upsetting you.”

John shook his head, grimacing at hearing his own voice speaking back to him. That was bound to get creepy. “No, no, it’s fine. Just surprising, like I said.” Then, after a brief pause, he asked, “How did you know my name is John?”

“I found your ID badge.” They pulled it out of their trouser pocket and tossed it over to John.

John caught the thing easily. He gaped at the obvious teeth marks in the plastic. “Did you try to _eat_ this?” he asked. He quickly shoved the badge into his own pocket and made a mental note to keep better track of his things.

The alien frowned, and John wondered if that expression meant the same thing in their culture as it did in his own. “I wanted to see what it tasted like.”

“Christ,” John breathed, rubbing a hand over his face. This was ridiculous. He was stranded in the middle of the rainforest with no outside communications with an alien who had tried to eat his things. A laugh bubbled out of him.

The alien stared at him in shock for a moment before tentatively laughing in return. It was low and deep and suffused with a happiness that seemed to surprise them. John thought it might have been one of his favourite sounds in the world.

“So how long have you known how to speak English?” he asked when they had both calmed down a bit.

“For the past twelve hours,” they replied. “It didn’t take me long after hearing you speak, and I read all the books in your library. I’m fairly certain I have a good command of your language now.”

John narrowed his eyes. “You mean to tell me that for twelve of the twenty-four hours you’ve been here, you’ve been capable of speaking to me, and yet you haven’t bothered to do it?” That felt like some sort of sick mind game, and he didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark with something like this.

The alien blinked guilelessly back at him, though that greenish glow reappeared in their skin. “I thought you might stop talking if I started to respond,” they said.

John wasn’t sure what they were trying to get at, and he continued to feel slightly uneasy with this development. Still, he supposed there might have been some cultural differences between them, so for the moment, he decided to let it go. “What can I call you, then? Do you have a name?”

The alien made a noise that could only be described as _shh-whir-click._

John tried his best to imitate the sound, but he was fairly certain he butchered it, judging by the alien’s amused expression. John shook his head, and there was a slight smile tugging up at his own lips. “Can I just call you Sherlock? That sounds like Sherlock.”

They shrugged. “That would be acceptable.”

Howlers sounded in the distance, and Sherlock’s antennae immediately flicked in that direction. John found that he didn’t like when Sherlock’s attention was diverted away from him. He told himself that he was merely worried that he would lose this opportunity to talk to an actual extraterrestrial being because they’d run off again to chase after howlers. He was by no means jealous of a monkey. That would be ridiculous.

All the same, John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm to get their attention and said, “Why don’t we head back to the main house?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before nodding. John kept his hand on Sherlock’s elbow for the entire walk back.

\---

“You have questions,” Sherlock said as soon as they’d settled down onto the sofa in the sparse living area.

John sat down beside them and took care to leave a respectable amount of space, a little embarrassed now at his continued hold on Sherlock’s arm during their short walk back to the house. “I’m sure you have questions for me, too,” he pointed out.

Sherlock nodded and leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “How many different species live on your planet?”

John frowned. “No one really knows. I mean, we’ve got tons of plants and animals that we haven’t even discovered yet. Suffice to say, it’s a lot.”

Sherlock’s awed expression made John’s heart kick in his chest. “You’ve got too many to count,” they reiterated, obviously fascinated.

John was surprised at the reaction. “I take it you don’t have many on your planet,” he ventured to guess.

Sherlock rolled their eyes. “My home planet is boring. There are two types of animal species—my own and then what’s used for meat—and only three types of plants.”

John raised his eyebrows. “I can understand the appeal of visiting the Tropics, then.”

Sherlock nodded. “But there aren’t any bees here. I was hoping there’d be bees. And dogs. I’ve read extensively about bees and dogs.”

John was quite charmed by those simple desires. “Bees are common where I’m from,” John told them, “and there’s plenty of dogs back there, too.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “You’re not from here?”

John shook his head. “No, I’m from a place called London. It’s about halfway across the planet. I only came out here because I needed the work.” Before he could even think about the implications of his words, he found himself saying, “Maybe sometime we can take a trip back to London, and you can see bees and dogs.”

He would have regretted making that sort of assumption about the longevity of their relationship, but before he could do so, Sherlock’s entire body seemed to emit a turquoise glow. “Really?” they asked excitedly. “We could do that?”

 _Christ,_ John thought, _I’m going to be totally gone on them soon_. “Yeah, of course,” was what he said aloud. That was the first time he actually found himself excited at the prospect of returning to London. His love for the city had dimmed somewhat in the wake of his crushing boredom with civilian life, but he found that, for Sherlock, he would gladly go back and would probably even enjoy it. He cleared his throat and tried to pull himself together. “Your ship crashed here, didn’t it?” He recalled the metallic sound and the tree falling two days prior.

Sherlock assumed a haughty expression and didn’t meet his gaze. “I didn’t _crash_ ,” they said. “I landed exactly as I’d planned to.”

John quirked an eyebrow up and laughed. “Right, so you meant to run into a tree.”

Sherlock glared over at him.

“Does your ship still work?” John asked, with the unspoken implication being, _Are you going to leave here anytime soon?_

“Well, no, it doesn’t, but I hardly care about that,” Sherlock said, and John let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding in. They were going to stay for at least a little while, then. That was good.

John had difficulty thinking of any other questions, though he knew there were many, but Sherlock apparently didn’t have that problem.

“Do humans really mate for life?” they asked.

John frowned. “Well, generally, that’s sort of the overall goal for a lot of people. They like to settle down and get married, but they don’t usually just…you know, with one person.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to frown. “They don’t…you know? I don’t know. What don’t they do?”

John shrugged, feeling oddly awkward talking about this with Sherlock. “Have sex. They don’t always just have sex with one person. So it depends on your definition of ‘mating,’ I guess.”

Sherlock seemed fascinated by this subject, in spite of John’s awkwardness. “That’s how my people are. With the sex, that is. And there are rarely any pair bonds between two individuals exclusively. It’s very much a society in which people mate to increase their fitness.”

John tried to not imagine Sherlock mating with dozens of other members of their species just for the sake of increasing their reproductive success. There was no reason for him to be _jealous_ of another species’ biological imperative, but, Christ, did he hate the idea of Sherlock being with anyone else.

“Here, we’ve mostly got a society where people mate for happiness instead,” John told them, and they seemed oddly intrigued by that fact. “What’s your species like?”

Sherlock grimaced. “They’re not very interesting, but many of them are content with their monotony. They mate, eat, sleep, and work.”

“That sounds a little…unfeeling.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped over to his. “My people aren’t known for kindness or emotion. We prioritise intellect and logic above all else. Sentiment gets in the way of all that.”

John felt something uncomfortable settle in his stomach. “Some people happen to enjoy a bit of sentiment.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Right, well, I suppose that’s why your species hasn’t yet managed to travel to the edge of the galaxy.”

John narrowed his eyes over at Sherlock, not liking the way this conversation was going. “We can’t all be heartless machines.”

Sherlock winced—a barely perceptible movement that John was half-sure he’d made up—but kept their face entirely devoid of emotion. “Yes, well, heartless machines don’t choose to be that way, so perhaps you should keep your judgment of my character to yourself.”

“Right,” John said, short and clipped. He found he was much less impressed with his new companion’s apparent sociopathic nature. “Maybe you should have just stayed on your edge of the galaxy, then.” He didn’t look at Sherlock’s face then, aware that perhaps that had been slightly too harsh. He shook his head and pushed himself up from the sofa. “I’m going out,” he said. He walked toward the door, grabbed his rain jacket and wallet, and headed out without looking back. Even still, he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he left.

\---

John was on his way back from the village, where he’d purchased a bottle of beer for lack of anything better, when he started to feel guilty. He supposed he couldn’t really blame Sherlock for being a member of an unfeeling species. Beyond that, Sherlock was hardly unfeeling. John recalled the way Sherlock had looked at the howlers the day prior. All that awe and wide-eyed fascination. Beyond that, what sociopath left an entire planet for the sake of seeing dogs and bees?

He cursed under his breath and hoped he hadn’t driven away the most interesting thing to ever happen to him.

Panic seized him when he walked into the living area of the main house to find it empty. It had been nearly an hour and a half, he reminded himself. Sherlock had probably gone to a different part of the building by then. Except that when he checked the rest of the building, it was similarly empty.

In a moment of desperation, John ran outside and caught sight of Sherlock’s silhouette over by the laundry station. It was just a cement foundation with a roof suspended above it, covering two large sinks. Sherlock was perched inside one of the sinks with their legs pulled up to their chest.

John knew Sherlock could hear him approach by the way their antennae swished around, but there was no other indication that they had even noticed John.

John was shit at talking about things like this, so instead of even trying, he said, “It’s nearly dinner time. Hungry?”

Sherlock looked over at him then, frowning. “Dinner?” they repeated, and John knew that it wasn’t because they were unfamiliar with the concept of the meal. No, it seemed as if Sherlock was genuinely disbelieving of the invitation. They seemed so unsure of their welcome in that moment that John’s heart constricted a bit for them.

“Yeah,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Granted, it won’t be very gourmet or anything. I’ve got limited supplies, and I’m usually just cooking for one, but it’s at least something.”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Sherlock nodded. It was a subtle thing, as if they were worried that John might change his mind at any sudden movement.

John smiled reassuringly back at them. Or, at least, he tried to, but he was sure it ended up coming off as a bit stiff. Christ, for someone who came from a sentimental species, he really needed to work on his flexibility with emotions.

Sherlock unfolded themselves from the sink and dropped back onto the ground. Their arm was quirked out oddly to the side, elbow pointed at John, and he stared at it in confusion before realising the significance of the gesture. The last time they’d walked back to the main house together, John had been holding Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock clearly thought that was some sort of social custom now. John considered correcting them but decided that he’d do it later. Right then, he placed his hand around Sherlock’s arm and led them back to the house.

He tried to ignore the way the simple contact between them instantly unfurled the tension in his chest.

\---

It was only halfway through dinner that John thought to ask, “So you can eat human food?”

Sherlock rolled their eyes and shoveled another bite of pasta into their mouth. “Obviously, John. Do you think my species would look even remotely like yours if we didn’t have similar diets?”

John supposed that was a decent point. As far as he could tell, Sherlock’s teeth appeared similar to his own, and Sherlock’s abdomen was shaped in such a way as to indicate near-human digestion. “For all I know, you could just be imitating the way humans look in general,” he pointed out. Sherlock was, after all, still maintaining that pale skin tone that was entirely different than the one they had had at the beginning.

“I’m fairly confident I can eat everything you eat,” Sherlock said.

John laughed, remembering Sherlock’s earlier attempts at eating. “Just so you know, teabags and ID badges generally aren’t part of a human diet,” he teased.

The tips of Sherlock’s ears turned green for a moment, and they glared over at John. “Your food looks different than mine. How was I supposed to know that those things weren’t part of your regular meals?”

That distracted John from his teasing enough to ask, “What does your food usually look like?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Typically, it’s grey and comes in cubes. It’s filled with every nutrient we require to maintain functionality.”

John grimaced. “That sounds like something out of a sci-fi film.”

Sherlock frowned and cocked their head to the side, as if confused by the statement.

“Sci-fi. You know, science fiction.” Sherlock continued to stare blankly at John. “Science fiction is all aliens and robots that become sentient and weird impossible things happening,” he explained.

“Well,” Sherlock said, “clearly your definition of fiction is wrong, as I’m an alien to you and I’m here, and many other members of my species have made a home on Earth as well.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You mean that there are other aliens living here?”

Sherlock nodded. “Many others,” they repeated casually.

“I’m sure someone would have noticed if there were a bunch of aliens running around on the planet.”

Sherlock smirked. “Probably not, given that humans are idiots.”

John chucked a piece of bread at them. He was surprised to find that he was only moderately amused rather than genuinely affronted at the generalization about his entire species. “Careful how you talk about humans, or this human might just leave you outside with the monkeys all night.”

“I could break back in very easily, John,” Sherlock reminded him. “There are no windows here, only screens. It would be a matter of seconds.” They still looked slightly discomfited, though, and John wondered if they’d really believed his fake threat. He wanted to reassure them, but he figured that someone lacking most emotions wouldn’t need to be reassured, so he kept quiet about it.

“So what do other members of your species do when they come to Earth?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged and pushed their pasta around with their fork. “No one truly knows. Once someone leaves, they typically have very little contact with those back home. Most of them likely continue mimicking human form and set up a human life for themselves.”

“Is that what you came here to do?” John wondered if Sherlock intended to keep up his imitation of human skin tone for the rest of their life.

Sherlock looked over at John and shook their head slowly. “I don’t want a normal human life,” they said.

John smiled softly over at them. “Well, neither do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos are appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week in, and they’d developed a routine for themselves by that point. John hoped that settling into it would just make it more difficult for Sherlock to break themselves away, but he knew that Sherlock would likely just get tired of the routine itself and leave. They seemed like the sort to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up on Tuesday!

John looked at the calendar tacked to the kitchen wall. There were only seven days crossed out for that month. Seven days since Sherlock had arrived. (He hadn’t bothered keeping track of the passing time before Sherlock, and he tried not to think too hard about the significance of that.)

Seven days. One week and counting.

If John were being honest with himself (and he rarely was), there was a part of him that had worried that Sherlock would grow bored of him and his life there after that first day. That hadn’t happened yet, and he found himself both thrilled and even more worried that Sherlock’s departure was growing more imminent by the day.

John kept these concerns to himself. The last thing he wanted to do was scare away Sherlock even more quickly by expressing this much emotion to them. That was fine, though. John reminded himself that he hardly _needed_ to express his feelings. He’d never really been good at doing that sort of thing anyway.

They’d developed a routine for themselves by that point. John hoped that settling into it would just make it more difficult for Sherlock to break themselves away, but he knew that Sherlock would likely just get tired of the routine itself and leave. They seemed like the sort to do that.

Every day, John would go about the duties that went with his position as caretaker, and Sherlock would tag along, most often making things more difficult than they needed to be. After that, the two of them would try to entertain themselves in any way possible. Mostly, that involved trying to figure out more about one another.

\---

John was helping Sherlock collect the bones of a small mammal from the bank of the river when he paused to say, “How long is your life-span?”

Sherlock appeared not to have heard him at first, too fascinated with the anatomy of the unfortunate dead creature.

(They had come running up to the main house an hour prior shouting, “ _Bones_ , John! I found _bones_ ,” and they hadn’t stopped repeating that phrase until John had agreed to go down to the river to help them gather up the bones so they could attempt to reassemble them back at the house.)

“Sherlock,” John said, trying to get their attention. He nudged them with the toe of his boot.

Sherlock finally glanced up. “Hmm? Oh, my people typically live to be around eighty-five years old. And before you ask, yes, our years are similar to Earth years.” John hadn’t been about to ask that, but he supposed he should take it as a compliment that Sherlock thought he was clever enough to actually think about the similarity in their calendar years. “Our planets have similar rotations around their…” They waved their hand through the air, as if unable to locate the proper word, and finished lamely with, “Their whatever-they-are.”

John quirked an eyebrow up at Sherlock’s fumbled attempt at describing planetary motion. “Around their suns?” he suggested.

Sherlock didn’t look up at him, once again absorbed in the bones. “Suns,” they repeated. “If that’s what they rotate around, then yes, suns.”

John laughed. “You don’t know what your planet rotates around?”

Sherlock did look up then, but it was only to glare. “Shut up,” they said. “It’s hardly as if that’s important information to know.”

John shook his head, still grinning. “On this planet, that’s primary school stuff. Little nine-year-olds know that the Earth rotates around the sun.”

“On my planet, people only keep information that’s _valuable_ to their line of work. Knowing what my planet rotates around has never been an interest of mine, and so it will never be something I need to know.”

John smirked. “That doesn’t change the fact that every Earth child knows something you don’t.”

Sherlock huffed disagreeably and picked up all the bones they could carry. The front of their shirt was now covered in mud, but they seemed too irate to care. They turned on their heel and walked away back toward the main house.

John couldn’t help but laugh again. Sherlock _would_ be the sort to go off and sulk when they didn’t get their way, wouldn’t they? John felt foolish for finding it so amusing.

\---

Hours later, sulk completed, Sherlock glanced up from the only book at the research base that didn’t have anything to do with monkeys. They frowned. “Are all human relationships heterosexual?” they asked.

John realised that the book must have been some sort of unimaginative romance novel. “No. A lot of them are, but a lot of them aren’t.”

Sherlock seemed pleased by that. John tried to keep himself from thinking about why that might be.

“I take it that relationships where you’re from aren’t strictly heterosexual,” John said.

Sherlock rolled their eyes at John in the way they sometimes did when they thought he was being an idiot. John was found it to be oddly endearing. “My species doesn’t follow your human gender constructs. We’re classified as beings with or without certain genitalia.”

John recalled that first day they’d met and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Speaking of genitalia…”

Sherlock’s skin started to tinge green a bit, and John wondered what about this subject was making them lose their focus on keeping up their imitative skin tone. “I do have genitals, John,” they said, their tone almost irritable. “I’ve got all the… _parts_ that you have. Mine simply aren’t waving around all the time.”

And that, of course, called to mind the image of Sherlock with those parts “waving around.” John wasn’t sure why he’d ever thought this had been a good thing to start asking about. He already found Sherlock to be ridiculously attractive. Now he had to add the thought of them naked and with a penis to the mix. Christ, this was going to be difficult. “Right,” he said. “Good.”

Sherlock didn’t talk to him for the rest of the hour, and the green tinge remained on his cheeks until dinner.

\---

A few days later, for lack of anything better to do, John was re-reading a paper on the foraging habits of _Alouatta palliata_. He paused his reading long enough to look up and ask, “What does your species call themselves?”

Sherlock didn’t bother glancing up from the radio they were dissecting on the floor. “The closest approximation in your language would be ‘Holmes,’” they said.

“What is it in your language?”

Sherlock, still not looking up from his new project, gave a hum-hiss that John would by no means be capable of replicating.

“Right,” John said. “Holmes it is.” He smiled. “Sherlock, the Holmes.”

At that, Sherlock did look up, and it was only to shoot John an exasperated glare belied by the upward twitch in their lips. “That sounds idiotic.” After a pause, they added, “Actually, Sherlock Holmes might not be a bad human name.”

John couldn’t help but smile. He shouldn’t have been so pleased at Sherlock’s apparent desire to take on a human name or the permanence that it implied. “Do you not have surnames where you’re from?”

“Surnames mean family units, and I’ve already told you that those are close to nonexistent back home.”

John wondered about Sherlock’s parents. He imagined that Sherlock had only met one of them at best. They’d likely grown up in a distant household before being sent out on their own. “Well,” John said, “I think Sherlock Holmes suits you.”

Sherlock flushed green and smiled.

\---

“Do you ever sleep?” John asked when he found Sherlock sitting on the foot of his bed once again. It hadn’t happened since that first night that Sherlock had come back to the main house. Or, at least, John hadn’t noticed it happen since that first night.

“I do sleep,” Sherlock said, scooting a little bit further onto the bed, as if John talking to them was somehow an invitation to stay longer.

“Yes, I’ve seen you take naps on the sofa.” John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You have a bedroom, you know, and that sofa’s probably infested with fleas or ticks or what-have-you.”

Sherlock scrunched their nose. “I don’t like my bedroom. It’s on an entirely different floor than yours.”

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock’s bedroom being on an entirely different floor was the cause of concern for the alien, or if that last bit had merely been an unrelated piece of information. “Well, you can’t sleep in here, and you can’t keep coming in here and waking me up.” As much as John liked the idea of Sherlock sharing his bed, he knew that it would merely make his attachment to them all the more obvious, and that would in turn drive them away more quickly.

Sherlock pouted at that so adorably that John could feel some of his own grumpiness fade away.

John sighed again, this time in resignation. “Look, why don’t you take the room next to mine,” he suggested. “The wall separating us won’t reach the ceiling, so you can still hear me at night, and I can still hear you. And, check this out.” He pointed to the paneling on the “wall” between the rooms. “There’s cracks here, so if you really need to check up on me at night, you can peek through.” He was sure he was going to regret giving Sherlock even that much access to him during the night, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be too upset about it.

Sherlock’s skin glowed bright in the dark room. John was captivated. They trilled excitedly and dashed out of John’s room that instant. It was obvious where they had gone once John could see the remnants of that glow come through the gaps in the paneling.

 _Yes,_ John thought. _This arrangement might work well for the both of us._

He, of course, regretted it the next morning when, at breakfast, Sherlock asked, “Do you always sleep so soundly?”

John sighed and pushed his oatmeal around with his fork. “You watched me all night instead of sleeping yourself, didn’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t bother trying to deny it. “Do you always sleep so soundly?” they repeated.

John wasn’t sure he was ready to have this conversation with them, but he eventually did shake his head. “No, sometimes I have nightmares. I haven’t had many of them recently.” He knew that it was Sherlock’s influence on him that had caused that.

“Interesting,” was all they said, before moving on to the next topic.

\---

“Can you eat this?”

John glanced up from the carrots he’d been chopping to find Sherlock holding up a ballpoint pen. He furrowed his brow.

“Can you eat this?” Sherlock asked again, and John knew that they meant, _Can_ I _eat this?_

“No,” John said, and they frowned and tossed the pen onto the counter. “Anything you can eat is going to be in the fridge or in these cabinets. Anything else, probably best not to try it.”

Sherlock sprawled dramatically in a chair nearby. John resisted the urge to laugh. “We eat the same foods over and over and over again,” they complained. “I’m going to end up dying of rice and beans.”

John still managed not to laugh, but he couldn’t help the smile that rose to his face. “You’re not going to die of rice and beans,” he said. After a moment of consideration, he added, “You know, it is the end of the month. I’m due to go back into town to do the shopping soon. You could come with me and help pick out different foods.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and their antennae twitched excitedly, and John had to take a few deep breaths to get himself under control.

\---

“You may want to hide these things,” John told them later as they prepared to leave for town. He reached up and brushed his fingertips lightly over Sherlock’s antennae. He became suddenly aware of how little they usually touched outside of John’s hand occasionally resting on Sherlock’s elbow. The contact felt ridiculously electrified.

John thought he heard Sherlock’s breathing hitch, but he must have been imagining it, as Sherlock looked remarkably composed as they retracted their antennae until they weren’t visible beneath their hair.

“There,” John said, pulling back his hand with reluctance. “Now you look almost human.”

Sherlock preened, as if that was somehow a compliment. They then stuck their arm out for John to hold onto.

John knew his own arm would likely get tired from holding that position for the walk, so he instead placed his palm on the small of Sherlock’s back. “Why don’t we do it this way instead?”

Sherlock’s ears were tinged green for a moment, and they nodded.

So they made their way to town like that, in relative silence, looking to any onlookers like two human tourists. And, yes, with how pale Sherlock was, there was no mistaking them for anything other than a tourist. John thought that maybe he should have insisted on sunscreen before this little excursion, but then again, he couldn’t be sure that Sherlock’s skin would even burn.

The fact that Sherlock _did_ burn became readily apparent about fifteen minutes into the walk.

“We’re halfway there,” John tried to reassure comfortingly.

Sherlock merely glared at him. “So you mean to tell me that my skin is only halfway done burning off,” they muttered.

John tried to keep himself from laughing at them. “Do you not have sunburns where you’re from?”

“My people are generally smart enough to stay indoors for most of their lives,” they replied haughtily.

John did laugh, then, but how could he not? Sherlock sounded so incredibly petulant right then over something that was hardly a great concern. It was rather cute. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “when we get to town, the first thing we’ll buy will be an umbrella for you to use. That way you can block the sun on the way back.”

Sherlock huffed out a put-upon sigh, but whey they arrived at the market, the first thing Sherlock did was locate an umbrella and give it to John.

John smiled and accepted the umbrella readily. It looked like the sort of thing a child would pick out—all bright colours and convoluted patterns—but it was certainly not something one would picture Sherlock with. John had merely assumed that Sherlock, with their near-emotionless nature and occasional coldness, would simply choose something plain and black. When Sherlock went over to look at all the gossip magazines in the shop, John decided that perhaps he didn’t know them nearly as well as he’d thought.

So, going shopping with Sherlock was very much like going shopping alone at first. John went about picking up his standard, monthly ration of rice and beans, (though this time he took care to also buy ingredients for a cobbler,) while Sherlock flipped through a soap opera guide (and they were lucky that about half of the magazines were in English and were therefore legible to them).

Sherlock only joined up with him when John was getting ready to check out.

“Oh, no, don’t go into that line,” they said, steering John away from the cashier’s line he’d been aiming for. “That man is cheating on his wife, and he’d probably overcharge you for something to get more money to carry out his affairs.”

John frowned. He stared at Sherlock, then at the cashier, and then back at Sherlock. “How could you _possibly_ know that?” He wondered briefly if Sherlock could read minds, and he felt a bit uneasy at the thought of Sherlock being able to know precisely how John thought of them.

Sherlock looked back at John, as if surprised by the question. “His wedding ring is old and scuffed,” Sherlock pointed out. “That says all you need to know about the state of his marriage. Plus, he keeps shielding it from view anytime an attractive woman comes in his line. He also overcharged the man that just passed through for his bag of coffee, so the assumption holds that he’s going to pocket that spare money and use it to pursue his true interest of sleeping with women he’s not married to.”

John stared openly at them. “That…was amazing,” he said, awed.

Sherlock blinked over at him. “You mean that you couldn’t pick up on that?”

John laughed. “Hardly. I mean, I can sort of see it now that you pointed it out, and he does look like a right slimy bastard, but I never would have really known all of that.” It struck him suddenly that maybe Sherlock didn’t know anything at all. This could have all been speculation, and there was no way to prove that those deductions had been right. “Can you do that for me, too?”

Sherlock looked a bit unsettled, and John wondered if they had picked up on his momentary doubt. “I can,” they said. They cast a cursory glance over John. “You had a psychosomatic limp that was cured when you met me. The limp and that wound to your shoulder are likely the result of your time overseas at war. I’d guess Afghanistan, but it’s difficult to say without more extensive knowledge of the wars your people have going on. You were a soldier over there, yes, but also a doctor. You mentioned as much when we first met, but I hardly knew how to understand you then. Your nightmares must come from that time as well. They went away when you met me. You like me because I’m the most interesting thing in your life, and you need a bit of intrigue in order to feel functional. You heard about this job through your brother who you generally don’t talk to anymore because of his substance abuse problem. You’re working out here because it’s more adventurous than a typical life in London. Your therapist likely suggested it—and, yes, with a psychosomatic limp, you _must_ have a therapist. You also needed the money. I understand that an army pension doesn’t go very far these days.” They paused to take a breath. “How was that?”

John raised his eyebrows and tried to figure out any other way that Sherlock could have known all of that information about him. He came up empty. “Christ, you’re amazing,” he breathed.

Sherlock’s skin glowed for a moment, and John tugged them into an unoccupied aisle so that no one would see that. “You really think so?”

John smiled. “Of course. That’s really remarkable. How did you do that?”

Sherlock apparently couldn’t help but smile in return. “I merely observed.” They recounted all the little details about John—the memory of his cane, his tan, the old mobile that had an inscription for someone called Harry Watson (his _sister,_ damn)—that had apparently led them to those incredible deductions.

“Incredible,” John said, loving the way Sherlock’s skin seemed to glow again after every compliment. He hoped that people would simply assume it was a trick of the lighting. “How did you learn to pick up on all of that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “That was one of the few things I was good at back home,” they said. “I couldn’t do it here until I learned more about your Earth culture, though, so I was limited in my abilities until just now.”

“Why until just now?” It suddenly dawned on John, and he quickly added, “The gossip mags. That’s what those were for. You learned how to do all of that from skimming through them.”

Sherlock nodded, still looking quite pleased with themselves, and John made a mental note to compliment them often enough that he could see that look at least once a day.

\---

John was positively shaking with laughter as he stirred the pasta later that evening. Sherlock’s own laughs were bubbling out of them as they leaned against the countertop nearby.

“We really need to work on your ability to whisper,” John said between giggles. “Did you see her face when you deduced her illegitimate child?”

Sherlock was smiling wider than John had ever seen them do in the past. “You could tell that she considered throwing that bag of peaches you’d just bought on the ground.”

“I’m glad she didn’t,” John said, shaking his head. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have peach cobbler for dessert tonight.”

Sherlock grinned down at the oven where their dessert was being prepared. “I have to admit, I’d be much less pleased with the outcome of the day if I’d been deprived of cobbler at the end of it.” Sherlock hesitated, then frowned. “Actually, I don’t really know what a cobbler takes like, but I’m assuming it’s good.”

“You’ll like it,” John assured. “You like fruit, and it’s just a lot of fruit warmed up with a crust.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up at that. They were apparently so excited at the prospect of a cobbler that they tried to get John to just skip dinner altogether and jump straight into dessert. John tried to remind himself that Sherlock had no idea that moving straight to dessert had certain sexual implications on some societies.

It was then that John heard something that he’d never heard before at El Panadero.

A phone was ringing.

That wasn’t possible, he knew. The only phone in the research base was attached to the hallway leading up to the kitchen and had been disconnected for years because the owners had gotten tired of paying to keep it up when the researchers never used it.

And yet, there was a very distinct ringing coming from the direction of the landline.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he walked over and picked up the phone.

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” the voice on the other line said, “I’m so glad I caught you before dinner.” It was a man speaking. He had a posh accent that was vaguely reminiscent of the one Sherlock had somehow developed, but John found it to be grating coming from this stranger.

John looked around, as if expecting to see his mysterious caller peering in from one of the windows. All he saw was Sherlock staring at him with obvious interest and concern from over by the oven.

“Don’t bother trying to look for me,” the voice said, as if anticipating his move. “I assure you, I’m nowhere near Costa Rica at the moment.”

“You’ll forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” John said, voice low and slightly dangerous. There was no other way someone could get into contact with him, he was sure.

“I think you’ll find that I’m quite capable of finding out information about you comfortably from my office in London,” the man on the other end of the line said.

“What do you want?” John demanded. He was growing increasingly uneasy with every passing second.

“I have a proposition for you.”

John didn’t even pause to consider. “Not interested.”

“You don’t know what I’m offering. I’m willing to provide you with compensation for any information you might have about your new…housemate.”

John’s blood ran cold. This man knew about Sherlock. Keeping his eyes trained on the alien now prodding at a mosquito that had somehow made its way inside, John repeated, “Not interested.”

John could practically hear the other man’s smirk. “You’re very loyal, very fast. That’s interesting, considering your therapist in London noted that you have ‘trust issues.’”

Great. Now the bastard had access to his therapist’s files. Lovely.

“I know who—or should I say, _what_ —your new companion is, Dr. Watson,” the man continued.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” John said.

The man on the other end of the phone scoffed. “Have it your way, doctor, but, if you refuse to comply with my terms, for the sake of your safety and your new _friend’s_ , I suggest you send them back home. They don’t belong here, and I think you know that as well as I do. Send them home, and we won’t have an issue.”

John’s whole body went cold. Was this man threatening him unless he tried to send Sherlock back to their home planet? “I don’t take kindly to people threatening those that I care about,” he growled. “Now, for _your_ sake, I suggest you never contact me again.” He slammed the phone down. His heart was racing. Someone knew about Sherlock. Someone very creepy and obviously very powerful knew about Sherlock. John didn’t like that.

He walked back into the kitchen perhaps a bit too quickly, wanting to have Sherlock by his side as soon as possible. He felt a strong surge of protectiveness for his…whatever Sherlock was to him.

“Something’s happened,” Sherlock said as soon as they laid eyes on John.

John nodded. “Yes, something’s happened.”

They appeared momentarily distracted enough to bring the two bowls of pasta over toward the kitchen table. They then went back and grabbed onto John’s arm to lead him to one of the chairs. “You need to eat,” Sherlock said. “You look like you might pass out.”

John was quite sure that he wouldn’t be passing out when there was a real and present danger to Sherlock’s life, but he obligingly took one bite of pasta and drank half his glass of water.

That seemed to satisfy Sherlock enough that they finally let go of their hold on their curiosity. “Someone called,” they said.

“Yes.”

“I thought the phone didn’t work.”

John nodded. “It doesn’t. Or, at least, it’s not supposed to. Now you see my concern. Somehow someone got the phone working again, and figured out all about me and my therapist back in London and that you’re living here.” He paused trying to impress upon Sherlock how serious this situation was. “He said he knew _what_ you are.”

Sherlock—the bastard—actually looked _relieved_. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John was a little taken aback by the lack of proper fear in their attitude. “Well, yes.”

Sherlock cocked their head to the side. “Did you take it?”

“What?”

“The money,” they repeated. “Did you take it?”

John stared back at them incredulously. “No, of course I didn’t take it.”

“Pity,” Sherlock said. “You could use the additional income.”

John gaped at them for a moment longer before shaking his head. “You’re absolutely mad,” he said, but there was enough fondness in his tone that Sherlock didn’t get angry with him.

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re at least as bad as I am if you’re content to spend time with me.”

John actually managed a smile at that. “So you’re not worried in the slightest about this psychopath possibly coming after you? He did say that it would be in the interest of your safety to go back to your home planet.”

Sherlock frowned at that. “Did he now,” they murmured. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that, but no matter. I’ll take care of it.”

John wondered if that meant that Sherlock was just going to pick up and leave, if they were going to give in to this man’s demands. They’d only known one another for about two weeks, but John had gone and gotten attached. He didn’t want them to leave. “How do you plan on taking care of it?” he asked.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively through the air. They weren’t quite looking at John anymore, appearing instead to be retreating into their own mind. “Think nothing of it.”

Unfortunately, given his fascination with Sherlock, John could think of nothing else.

This, he knew, would change things, and he feared that it wouldn’t be for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are always appreciated, and keep an eye out for the third and final chapter on Tuesday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first John thought that Sherlock might have been rattled by the man on the phone. Of course, Sherlock didn’t have nearly enough emotional range to experience something like that, so it seemed unlikely that they would be worried. Besides, they had seemed remarkably unconcerned when hearing about it. The only part that had surprised them was the man’s insistence that they return to their home planet. Still, John doubted that Sherlock would be the sort to simply pack up and leave at vague threats from some creep.
> 
> There was only one thing John could think of to cause this distance. Sherlock was growing bored of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, I'm several days late with this! Sorry! I'd make up some excuse, but honestly it just took me longer to write this than I was expecting.
> 
> Anyway, there's some sex in this chapter, so just be aware of that. Thank you so much for reading!

“Do you want me to put some aloe on your arms?” John asked. It was the day after their excursion out into town, and he could tell that there was something off. They were seated in the living area of the main house, and though they were mere feet from one another, Sherlock hadn’t spoken to him in hours.

Sherlock glanced over at him briefly, distractedly, like they were wrapped up in something more interesting in their own mind. “Oh, no, it’s fine,” they said.

It was a stupid thing to feel rejected over, but the lack of engagement had John worried. “Right, well, I’m going to head out soon to clear away the rubbish that washed into the laundry area. You ready?”

Sherlock blinked themselves out of their momentary trance and sprung up from the sofa. John couldn’t help how hopeful he felt. Maybe things were all right between them, after all. Except, Sherlock followed that move up with, “No, not today. I’ve got something else I need to take care of.”

“What else could you possibly have to take care of?” John asked. Well, demanded, really. Sherlock was an alien on the planet, though; there was no way they could have other matters to attend to. It didn’t make sense.

But Sherlock still left John on his own for the several hours, only returning to John’s side for a brief bit during dinner.

This continued for the next few days. John would ask if Sherlock would like to join him, and Sherlock would cite some excuse about needing to do something else. They never responded when John questioned them about it. Indeed, they remained wrapped up in their head so often that they barely spoke to John at all.

At first John thought that Sherlock might have been rattled by the man on the phone. Of course, Sherlock didn’t have nearly enough emotional range to experience something like that, so it seemed unlikely that they would be worried. Besides, they had seemed remarkably unconcerned when hearing about it. The only part that had surprised them was the man’s insistence that they return to their home planet. Still, John doubted that Sherlock would be the sort to simply pack up and leave at vague threats from some creep.

There was only one thing John could think of to cause this distance. Sherlock was growing bored of him. They were probably planning on where to go next, having exhausted their enjoyment of their time with John. It stung a bit, knowing that. Well, more than just a bit. John’s heart felt nauseous. Christ, he’d gotten attached. Sherlock hadn’t even left yet, and John was already feeling it. He’d never been so upset over any past failed relationship, but Sherlock was different.

John knew that he couldn’t simply keep hoping for Sherlock to change their mind. If he asked them to stay, Sherlock would just think him weak. This was probably how their trysts ended on their home planet. One party grew bored or decided the arrangement wasn’t beneficial, and the other party wasn’t invested enough to care that it was ending. John felt rather bitter imagining Sherlock just tossing him aside like all of their past lovers.

It was that bitterness that led to John distancing himself from Sherlock even more. After a certain point, John stopped inviting Sherlock out with him in general. He ate dinner in the musty “library” and left Sherlock to their own devices. He’d even put a sheet up on the wall that separated his room from Sherlock’s to prevent the alien from trying to check on him in the night.

Sherlock noticed. Of course they did. They were bloody brilliant. They approached John while he was cooking one morning, and their expression belied their obvious confusion at John’s recent behaviour. “Would you like to come out into the forest with me today?” they asked. They looked hopeful enough that John actually felt his hardened demeanor soften a bit.

John sighed and shoved the rice and beans he was preparing in the fridge. They would hopefully keep well enough. “Sure,” he said, offering a slightly weary smile over at Sherlock. “Let’s go, then.”

They suited up for a trip out into the forest and headed out. They didn’t talk much, but that was fine. The silence between them felt almost companionable again, rather than the tension it had been taking on recently.  

John’s hopes for a possible reconciliation were dashed, though, when Sherlock led them into a little clearing (a man-made one—or, in this case, alien made). All the trees in the area had been knocked down by what could have only been the ship Sherlock had used to get to Earth in the first place. It looked very much like something out of a sci-fi film (though, as Sherlock reminded him, science _fiction_ was occasionally riddled with underlying fact). It was a small thing. More of a pod than a proper ship. Its exterior was a bit battered, but judging by the amount of trees that had been taken down in the crash, the material it was built out of must have been strong.

John stared at it. “What’s this, then?” he said, and his voice had lost any of the friendliness that had returned to it earlier.

Sherlock frowned, brow furrowed. They approached the pod and patted its side. “This is my ship,” they said. “I’ve been fixing it up. It’s almost back to full working order.” The closer they got to the pod, the less human their skin tone became, almost like their body remembered where it had been before all of this.

John was normally fascinated at seeing Sherlock in their true form, but now, it just felt like a punch to the gut. It seemed as though Sherlock was preparing to return to their own planet in every way possible. John clenched and unclenched his fist a few times. “Right,” he said. Sherlock was really going to leave, then. Not because of that threat, though, John knew. Sherlock wasn’t the sort to dash off because someone told them to. No, this was because they’d grown bored. Just as John had suspected. “Right,” he said again.  And now they had brought him there to rub it in. That was cruel, even for them.

Sherlock took a step toward him. “I was thinking that I could—“

John cleared his throat loudly, cutting them off. “Yeah, I don’t care what you’re thinking of doing with your ship,” he said.

Sherlock frowned more deeply. “What’s bothering you?” they asked.

John shook his head. Of course Sherlock would think an emotional reaction at a time like this would be odd. Sherlock probably didn’t feel anything at all at the prospect of leaving. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” he said.

Sherlock crossed their arms over their chest and narrowed their eyes at the blatant hostility in John’s voice. “That’s obviously a lie.”

John couldn’t believe that Sherlock was trying to figure out what was bothering him. Surely they could tell. They were just being cruel pretending otherwise.   “Yeah, no. Not a lie. I don’t care what you do. Have fun on your way back.”

Sherlock cocked their head to the side. “My way back where?”

John leveled them with a cold expression. As if they didn’t know. He wasn’t sure what game they were playing, but he wasn’t having it. “Your way back to your own planet.” And then, to prove that he could be as detached as Sherlock was, he added, “Leave tomorrow for all I care.” With that, he turned on his heel and stormed off.

\---

John had walked into town without a second thought. He perhaps should have stopped to pick up his wallet, because he was now milling about one of the shops without the means to pay for anything. He didn’t want to go back, though, because he wasn’t sure how to deal with Sherlock right then. So there he was, staring at different types of crisps for far too long, knowing that he couldn’t purchase any of them, just to avoid returning to face his alien.

The owner of the shop approached him, and John prepared himself to be kicked out for loitering for too long. Instead, though, the man said, “¿Su nombre es John Watson?”

Confused, John nodded. “Sí, es mi nombre.” How had this man known who he was?

The man nodded. “Sígueme. Teléfono para usted.”

John obediently followed the man. He held the fleeting hope that perhaps Sherlock had worked out how to operate the phone back at El Panadero, that Sherlock might be asking him to come back. When he reached the back of the shop, he tried not to be too eager as he picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”

“Ah, John Watson,” the voice on the other end of the line said. John’s blood went cold as he recognised the voice. It was the same creep who had called a few days earlier to discuss Sherlock.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“I just want to offer you some advice,” the man said coolly.

“Not interested.”

“I think you will be,” the creep assured. He then took a deep breath, as if regrouping. “My name is Mycroft. The creature you call Sherlock is my sibling.”

John frowned and had to take a moment to look around. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see, but there was nothing in the shop to indicate that anything was out of the ordinary. “ _You’re_ Sherlock’s sibling?” he asked, incredulous. “This is all some sort of elaborate practical joke, isn’t it?”

John could practically hear the man—Mycroft, apparently (what a pretentious name)—rolling his eyes. “I don’t play practical jokes, John.”

John shook his head. “I don’t understand. If you’re Sherlock’s sibling, why did you threaten them if they didn’t leave?”

Mycroft sighed again. “They had such unrealistic expectations when they left. It would be best for them if they went back, or they’re going to get hurt.”

“Well,” John muttered, “you don’t need to worry about them any longer. They’re going back.”

There was a brief pause. “I’m afraid you’ve severely misjudged this situation, doctor. I take it you told Sherlock about our previous chat?”

“Yes, of course I did. I thought they should know that there was some bloody stalker out to get them,” John said, taking pleasure in sassing this infuriating man.

There was a prim sniff from the other end of the line. “Right. Well, in that case, they will have immediately deduced that I was the caller. They do so love to defy me. They hated life back home, and they wouldn’t go back just because I want them to.”

John rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I’d love to believe you, but I just saw Sherlock repairing their ship. They’re leaving.”

Mycroft paused again, and it felt like he was doing it on purpose just to give John time to doubt his own statement. “Has Sherlock told you about our parents?”

John frowned, confused at the sudden change in subject. “No, but they did say that most of your society is just casual mating to increase fitness. I imagine you two didn’t know your parents well.”

“That’s not it at all,” Mycroft informed him calmly. “Our parents had an unconventional pair-bond. They’re monogamous. They lived together and raised us together, and they openly loved one another.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” John asked. Granted, this was entirely new information, and it went against what John had assumed about Sherlock’s home life, but it still seemed to be an odd thing to bring up.

“Sherlock got used to that family model,” Mycroft explained. “They’ve always been the sentimental sort. The romantic sort.” John was sure that he had misheard that bit. “They get attached. Most individuals back home bored Sherlock immediately, but they would grow attached to those they deemed interesting. The boring ones, they hardly paid any attention to, but the interesting ones, Sherlock would stick with. That sort of thing isn’t received well on our planet.”

John imagined a young Sherlock trailing after someone they fancied, trying to show their affection, only to be teased mercilessly by the other schoolchildren. John had never imagined Sherlock as “the sentimental sort,” but he could see now that perhaps Sherlock had simply had a difficult time expressing feelings after being taunted for even having emotions.

“Why are you telling me this?” John asked, feeling a bit lost.

“So that you might have a better impression of what they’re like before you dismiss them entirely,” Mycroft said, tone going a bit darker until those words almost sounded like a threat. “Now, I suggest you go back to them and ask them what they’re doing with their ship, because I assure you they are not planning to leave.”

The line went dead, and John put the phone back down. He simply stood there, collecting his thoughts, until the owner came over to usher him back into the main part of the shop. “Gracias,” John told the man before walking out.

If Sherlock truly was as distant as John had believed, then they might really be leaving for good, but if Mycroft’s vague advice was accurate, then John might have ruined any chance of Sherlock wanting to stay.

He needed to get back to Sherlock, to sort this all out.

\---

“You shouldn’t have come here in the first place,” someone said. The voice was coming from inside Sherlock’s room. Adrenaline pounded through John’s veins. No one else was meant to be at El Panadero. He’d stopped in his tracks on his way up the stairs upon hearing that voice, old instincts kicking in.

John slowed his movements down, senses on high alert, as he crept silently into his own room to retrieve his gun. He tugged the sheet down he’d used to block the cracks in the wall and peered through. He could see Sherlock on their bed, cross-legged and facing away from him. There was no sign of anyone else, but his range of view was limited. Nothing for it, then. He would just have to go in there, gun drawn, and hope that whatever arsehole was talking to Sherlock wouldn’t put up too much of a fight.

As he laid his hand on Sherlock’s door, he heard the intruder speak again.

“Have fun on your trip back home,” they said, and—was that his own voice? “I want you to go back where you came from,” the stranger said, and they sounded an awful lot like John himself. “I don’t want you here anymore. You’re annoying me. A show-off. A smart-arse. I never wanted to go to London with you. You shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up.”

John cursed under his breath as he realised what was going on. He tucked his gun in the waistband of his trousers and pushed the door open. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, alone. They stared at John with wide, shocked eyes, clearly not having heard him return to the house.

“You were imitating my voice just now, weren’t you?” John asked, taking a step forward into the room. He remembered how Sherlock had offered to modify their voice when they’d first started speaking, choosing to mimic John’s as an alternative.

Sherlock just stared at him with that same stunned expression. Their skin, which had gone back to the pale humanoid tone, started to look slightly purple.

John took his gun out of his waistband and set it down on the floor. The last thing he needed was for Sherlock to feel overly threatened by him just then. “Is that how you think I see you?” he asked, voice almost teasing. “As an annoyance? Or a smart-arse? I mean, you are a bit of a smart-arse on occasion, so you’re not too far off there.” Sherlock looked away, and John winced. “Right. Not ready to joke around just yet.”

Sherlock glanced back over at him but didn’t say a word.

“So, I spoke to your brother again,” he said. “Yes, I know he’s your brother now. He’s living as a human man in London, right?”

Sherlock turned their face away from him and didn’t reply.

John grimaced. Christ, he’d really messed this up. He couldn’t believe that he’d ever been idiotic enough to believe Sherlock to be unattached. This argument had obviously affected them far more deeply than John could have anticipated. While he still didn’t want to seem too eager, he knew that he owed it to Sherlock now to express his feelings in some way. If Sherlock rejected him afterwards, well, John certainly would deserve that. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “Would you still want to go to London with me?”

Sherlock did turn around then. Their brow was furrowed, and their skin was mostly devoid of that purple hue now. They’d even retracted their antennae. John wondered if Sherlock was only making an attempt to look human because of the negative reaction they’d received after looking like a proper alien earlier. He felt incredibly guilty for that. _Add it to the list_ , he thought wryly.

John shuffled forward a bit. “We wouldn’t be able to go for a few months,” he continued. “The researchers don’t get here for a little while longer, but after they leave and give me my paycheck, I’ll have enough money to afford two tickets to London.”

There was such tentative hope in Sherlock’s expression right then that John’s heart felt constricted.

John offered an apologetic smile and moved to perch on the edge of the bed. He was still several inches away from Sherlock, just in case they didn’t want him to get too close. “I think you’d like London,” he said. “That is, if you’re not really leaving to go back to your planet.”

Sherlock shook their head. “No, I was never planning to leave,” they rushed to explain. “I was only going to send my ship back without me. Mycroft couldn’t pressure me to leave if I had no way of getting back.”

And there it was, confirmed. John had been a right arse. “I’m sorry I got angry with you before,” he said. He generally wasn’t good at admitting fault, but this time, he knew it was necessary. “Those things you were saying about yourself before—the things you thought _I_ was saying about you.” Sherlock looked away from him again, glowing purple. “None of that was true. I’ve never been happier than I am with you here.”

Sherlock smiled timidly then, turning toward him once more. “I’m—er, likewise,” they said.

John grinned over at them. “Mycroft also talked to me about your parents,” he mentioned. “He seemed to think that you’d gotten grand ideas of romance because of them.” Sherlock looked a bit caught-out, and John smirked. “He hinted that you might have gone and gotten attached to me.”

Sherlock groaned and covered their face with their hands. “He’s such an insufferable know-it-all. Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut for once and not interfere with my life?” Their ears were tinged green.

John laughed and reached up to rub reassuringly at Sherlock’s shoulder. “No need to be so embarrassed,” he said. “You can admit it. You’ve got a bit of a crush on me.”

Sherlock groaned again, loudly and dramatically, and John was grinning harder than he thought possible. He brought one hand up to stroke through Sherlock’s (ridiculously, impossibly, devastatingly) soft hair, feeling the little bumps where their antennae had been.

“It’s all right, love,” he murmured. “I’ve got a bit of a crush on you, too.” That was certainly an understatement, but it was as much about his emotional state as he was willing to reveal.

Sherlock slowly dropped their hands away from their face, studying John’s expression as if trying to determine how honest he was being. “So you want me to be your significant other?” they asked slowly.

John cocked his head to the side at the choice of words, but he supposed that they weren’t wrong. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess so. I mean, you don’t have to commit to anything right now, but I am quite gone on you.”

Sherlock smiled properly then, expression open for the first time in days, and John so desperately wanted to kiss them. It struck him at that point that perhaps he really could. Sherlock seemed to like the idea of a relationship developing between them, so kissing might be allowed. He licked his lips and lifted his hand up to cup Sherlock’s cheek, at which Sherlock let out a high _whir_. “Is this okay?” he asked, slowly leaning forward.

Sherlock nodded.

“Stop me at any time,” John murmured before closing the distance between them. He pressed their lips together and felt the tiny gasp Sherlock let out at the contact. John hummed, and Sherlock _whirred_ , and it was perfect. He pulled back to kiss both of Sherlock’s cheeks just to watch the brilliant turquoise flush that bloomed out of Sherlock’s skin on those spots. “God, you’re beautiful,” John breathed, and Sherlock ducked their head away adorably.

Sherlock cleared their throat. “So, just to clarify, you don’t want me to go back to my home planet?” they asked.

John shook his head. He ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair again. “No, love. I don’t want you to go. I was being an idiot. I thought you wanted to leave here, and I should have asked you about it instead.”

Sherlock nodded, seemingly reassured. “You were being an idiot,” they said with a smile, “but I think I’ll come to forgive you for your stupidity.”

John couldn’t even be upset at the insult, merely laughing.

They shifted even closer to John. “Now, back to kissing, I think.” They shut their eyes and tilted their chin forward, lips pursed, and John was sure he had never been more in love. (Not that he would admit to that last bit, as this was all still far too new to be throwing around sentiments like that.)

He obligingly kissed them again, this time parting his lips and licking gently against Sherlock’s. John was rewarded with a little _chirp_ and the parting of Sherlock’s lips in return. With tongue involved, Sherlock was a bit of a sloppy kisser, so John did his best to slowly lead them through it. It was a bit surprising that they appeared to be so inexperienced. John had assumed that, with all the sleeping around Sherlock’s species did, Sherlock had done this plenty of times, but kissing might not have featured strongly in their sexual encounters. Granted, this didn’t necessarily need to turn into a _sexual_ encounter, but John certainly wasn’t going to complain if it was.

He gently nudged Sherlock back until they were lying down on the bed, John spread out on top of them. He kept one hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair, unable to get enough of that silky texture, and his other hand began sliding down Sherlock’s front. They were still wearing one of those button-up field shirts they had discovered somewhere in the house, and John desperately wanted to take it off. Judging by the low moans coming from Sherlock and the hardness John could feel against his thigh, he guessed that Sherlock probably wouldn’t mind that. He reluctantly tore his fingers away from Sherlock’s hair to undo all the buttons on their shirt until it could be discarded somewhere off the side of the bed.

John took a moment then to lean back and simply take in the sight before him. “Beautiful,” he breathed.

Sherlock’s chest was almost entirely hairless. Their skin was smooth, that pale imitative colour disrupted by an undercurrent of indigo that pulsed with every heartbeat. Two peaked nipples had appeared where there hadn’t been any before. John wondered if their primary and secondary sex characteristics only emerged when aroused or when otherwise needed. That would be a question for another time, though. Right then, John had more important matters to attend to.

He bent over and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting gently. He pinched the other one between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock’s whole body seemed to jolt at that, and they let out a strangled cry. John was initially worried that he’d done something wrong, but then Sherlock brought a hand up to hold his head in place. John smirked. So Sherlock was going to be loud in bed. Well, that was all fine. After a few moments of relentless teasing, John switched his lips to the other nipple, and he received the same reaction as he’d gotten with the first. It was intoxicating.

“You’re so _responsive_ ,” John murmured when he pulled back. Sherlock started to look a bit self-conscious, so John trailed kisses up their neck to their lips. “It’s hot,” he added.

Sherlock flushed again and reached up to tug at the hem of the shirt John was wearing. “Take this off,” they said. “It’s only fair.”

John kissed their nose before batting their hands away. He pulled his shirt up over his head and tossed it down onto the floor. He was gratified by the way Sherlock’s eyes went wide. He liked to think that he’d remained relatively fit since his army days, and with all the blatant staring going on, he could tell that Sherlock at least thought he was still in decent shape.

Sherlock’s hands slowly crept down his chest before reaching his trousers. At that point, Sherlock, cheeks tinged blue, looked up at him. “May I?” they asked, and John would have teased them at their sudden politeness if he hadn’t been so turned on.

He nodded. “Yeah, go ahead.” They undid the button and zip on his trousers and whined loudly when John was forced to get up from the bed in order to shuck his trousers and pants entirely. John smirked over at them. “God, you’re eager, aren’t you?”

Sherlock shot John a look for that comment and moved so that they were lying on their stomach, clearly trying to get a better look at John’s cock. It might have been hot if not for the pure (or, moderately pure) scientific interest that was written out on Sherlock’s features. Hell, who was he kidding? It was hot anyway.

“Are all human penises this big?” they asked. One of their hands reached out to delicately skim along John’s length.

He shuddered and struggled to keep himself under control. “Er, no, not really. Not to brag, but I am a bit bigger than normal.” Sherlock licked their lips, and John groaned. “Fuck, your _mouth_ ,” he said.

Sherlock tore their eyes away from John’s cock with noticeable reluctance. “My mouth?” they repeated. That seemed to give them an idea, though, and they stuck their tongue out to lick carefully at the head.

John cursed under his breath. He lifted one hand to rest gently on the back of Sherlock’s head, twined through their soft curls. Sherlock met his gaze from under their eyelashes as they licked again. Their skin was now mottled with a turquoise flush—an unusual sight in the bedroom, to be sure, but it did nothing to diminish John’s enthusiasm.

“I don’t know what to do here,” Sherlock admitted, pulling back slightly. Their lips were wet and glistening, and they looked far sexier than they had any right to.

John fought back his instinctive disappointment at this increased distance between his erection and Sherlock’s tongue. He took a breath and steeled himself before asking, “What do you normally do during sex?”

“Back on my planet, sex is usually very efficient. Not really for pleasure,” Sherlock said, and they flushed more deeply than before.   Soon, it was going to be difficult to see any pale skin at all. _Good_ , John thought. He could see Sherlock’s antennae peeking up from under his hair now, and he decided it would be brilliant if he could get Sherlock to lose control of their ability to mimic the human form entirely.

John rubbed a hand down Sherlock’s arm, trying to soothe them through any awkwardness they were feeling. “Right,” John said, “but what do you personally do?”

Sherlock ducked their head down, hiding their face. “I—er, well, I’ve never. You know,” they muttered.

John furrowed his brow. “You’ve never…had sex?” he asked.

Sherlock shook their head.

All this time, John had been imagining that Sherlock had had countless casual lovers before. That was the way of their people, after all. But, no, John was the only one. A new wave of arousal punched through his stomach. He shouldn’t have been so turned on by the revelation. Christ, for all he knew, Sherlock could just be going along with this because they thought they needed to based on that cliché romance novel they’d read a week earlier. John took a steadying breath and tried to keep his arousal under control before he asked, “Do you want us to have sex right now?”

Sherlock nodded, and when John didn’t immediately jump on them, they rolled their eyes and said, “I’m not feeling pressured or whatever it is you’re worried about. I want this.”

John laughed. “Of course, love.” He knelt down beside the bed so that he was eye level with Sherlock again, and he kissed them sweetly and deeply. “In that case, I’m going to make this so good for you,” he murmured when he pulled back. “Take off your trousers.” He straightened up and watched as Sherlock hastened to comply. They sat directly in the middle of the bed when they were finished, looking over at John expectantly.

God, they were gorgeous. Their cock was smaller and slenderer than John’s was but otherwise looked very similar. Their lower half appeared to be almost entirely devoid of hair beyond some light fuzz, and the lack of pubic hair made Sherlock’s erection even more prominent.

“See?” Sherlock said, breaking John from his fascination with their form. “I’ve got all the same parts as you.”

John let out another laugh at that, and he was pleased to see Sherlock chuckling a bit in return. “Yes, you do,” he said, and he kissed Sherlock deeply once more, just for the sake of it. “Now, how about you lie on your stomach, and I’ll get to work on making this good for you.” John felt that he owed Sherlock the best first time ever. Not only was Sherlock amazing and more than deserving of that, but they had also gotten their feelings rather hurt over John’s actions earlier. He wanted to banish any thought in their mind that they were unwanted here.

Sherlock obediently lay down on their stomach, allowing John to push a pillow up under their hips. Their skin was steadily losing any pale colouring as they tried to anticipate what John was about to do.

John settled himself between Sherlock’s legs. He spread his hands down their back, coming to rest on their arse. Sherlock’s breathing hitched audibly. “Just relax, love,” he murmured. “If there’s anything you don’t like, just tell me.”

He took a moment to just appreciate the sight before him. God, he’d wanted this since the first day. He smoothed his hands over Sherlock’s arse before pressing teasing kisses along their thighs. His teeth grazed along the juncture between thigh and bum, and Sherlock let out a soft, pleasant gasp. When John bit a little harder at that spot, Sherlock _whirred_.  

He pushed Sherlock’s cheeks apart licked a broad stripe from their testicles to their perineum. Sherlock whimpered, the noise growing louder the closer John got to where they wanted him most. John looked up to find them twisting their upper body around so that they could look down at John. John smirked and, keeping eye contact with Sherlock for as long as possible, flicked his tongue over that tight little hole. Sherlock’s whole body shivered at that, and they let out an entirely inhuman noise. Encouraged, John licked again, now spending more time simply teasing Sherlock’s rim. About a minute in, Sherlock was already a quivering mess, letting out _hums_ and _whirs_ and the occasional whine. Their skin had gone back to its natural colours, and John had only just begun.

He leaned back to ask, “How’re you doing?”

Sherlock didn’t seem capable of giving a coherent reply just then and instead reached back with one arm to try to pull John back down to where he had been before.

John chuckled and immediately obeyed. This time, instead of spreading his flattened tongue out across Sherlock’s hole, he pushed the tip of it inside. Sherlock let out a loud, breathless, “ _Ah!_ ” at the contact.

John used his grip on Sherlock’s arse to spread their cheeks even wider, exposing them further to John’s mouth. He licked into Sherlock again, humming at the feel of him. Sherlock’s skin was a deep purple, and they had their head buried in the crook of one arm. They were practically sobbing with each movement of John’s tongue, and John might have been worried had it not been for the steady, rhythmic motion of Sherlock’s hips as they rutted against the pillow.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s noises started to get louder, until they were outright moaning, “ _John_ , yes, _John_.” John’s jaw was starting to cramp up a bit, but he wouldn’t dream of stopping, not when Sherlock’s hips were moving much more frantically. They were getting close. Fuck, it was hot. John brought a hand down to cup his own cock, stroking it slowly to try to ease some of the tension that was building within him. He moaned, and the sound must have done something for Sherlock, because not a moment later, their hips stuttered out a few more sloppy thrusts against the pillow before stilling. “Oh, _oh!”_ they cried, and John continued working them through it until they became shivery and over-sensitive.

As soon as John was sure that Sherlock was satisfied, he sat up and started to stroke himself in earnest. “God, that was so hot,” he said. “You’re fucking amazing.”

Sherlock hummed dazedly and slowly rolled themselves over. Their cock was flagging and covered in ejaculate (greyer than human ejaculate, he noted distantly). Their eyes were partially closed, and their usually haughty demeanor was hazy around the edges now. “Let me help,” they murmured, and they shimmied down the bed a bit so that John was straddling their stomach. They wrapped one hand around John’s on his cock. Realistically, it wasn’t all that much help, but just having Sherlock’s hand touching him, even overtop his own hand, was enough to bring John that much closer to the edge.

“Oh, fuck,” he grunted right before he felt his climax overtake him. “Fuck, _Sherlock_.” He felt his body go rigid as he came harder than he’d ever done before, making a proper mess out of Sherlock. The sight of his come settling on Sherlock’s stomach was enough to wring a few last spurts out of him.

John sat there, panting, until he finally had enough energy to gently lift Sherlock’s hand away from his own so that he could refrain from becoming too sensitive post-orgasm. Sherlock used their newly freed hand to scoop up some of John’s come on one finger and daintily slip it into their mouth.

John cursed under his breath. He shook his head and broke out into a smile. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he said.

Sherlock licked their lips and seemed to be mulling over the taste of John for a moment before they smiled in return. “I certainly hope not,” they replied.

Almost simultaneously, the two of them broke out into a fit of giggles. John collapsed down on the bed next to Sherlock, and Sherlock rolled over so that they could kiss John again. They only broke apart when their smiles got too big to allow for it any longer.

\---

“Oh, John,” Sarah said the next time the researchers returned to El Panadero. “I see you’ve found yourself an assistant.” She smiled tightly over at Sherlock, clearly picking up on the familiarity between them and John.

John smiled, and that was probably the first proper smile those researchers had ever seen from him. “Yeah, I did. This is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is the team of primatologists that uses this base.”

Sherlock, remembering what John had said about human politeness, saw fit to offer a brief nod at the group of individuals standing before them. Their skin was pale peach again, and their antennae were tucked away.   They looked as human as anyone else, and John, who adored seeing Sherlock in their natural form and was fascinated by their physical changeability, both loved it and hated it.

“Oh,” Sarah said, and John forced himself to look away from Sherlock and over at her. She was clearly adjusting to this new information. There was no trace of her usual subtle flirtation anymore. She was clever enough to recognise that there was something going on between John and his new associate.

It wasn’t long before all of the primatologists had picked up on it. During the night, John could hear the lot of them whispering about him and Sherlock. The walls were thin and cracked, so it was hardly as if he had to go out of his way to eavesdrop. He might have been annoyed about it, except that he was quite proud of people knowing that the two of them were together, and most of the researchers merely commented on how cute they were together. John couldn’t really argue with them there.

He ignored them after a certain point, though, because he had more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, planning his and Sherlock’s trip to London. For a little over a year, John hadn’t enjoyed the thought of going back to London at all, but, now, he found that he was eager to return. He’d always loved the city, and with Sherlock, he had no doubt that his life would be beyond interesting. There would certainly be none of the tedium of normal civilian life. Sherlock would make sure of that. _They’re going to cry when they see dogs and bees in abundance for the first time,_ he thought fondly. Yes, he was definitely excited to return home.

“Mycroft lives in London,” Sherlock noted, looking down at their prospective itinerary. “He’s an annoying git, and I don’t want him in my business.”

John smiled and soothingly stroked a hand through Sherlock’s hair, gently rubbing at the nubs of his antennae. “Sod Mycroft,” he said. “We don’t have to see him, and if he tries to bother us, we’ll tell him to get lost.”

Sherlock’s previously petulant expression was cracked by a small smile. “Sod Mycroft,” they agreed. They settled down against John, head resting on his good shoulder. “So,” they said, looking away almost sheepishly. “I found a woman online who’s willing to lease us a flat in central London for half the normal price.”

John raised his eyebrows and looked incredulously down at Sherlock. “How the hell did you manage that?” he asked. “You’ve only had probably two hours of wifi in the past two months, and now you’ve suddenly found us a discounted flat in central London?”

Sherlock lifted their head up. “It really wasn’t difficult. I was able to deduce a few key bits of information about her husband from the advertisement she posted online,” they said, “and after that, she was eager to give me a reduced rate.”

“Brilliant,” John told them, and he was gratified by the way their cheeks glowed turquoise. “Really, Sherlock, that’s incredible. If you wanted to stay out in London permanently, I think you could really make a name for yourself as a private detective or something.”

They leaned forward a bit, their expression both hesitant and serious as they asked, “Would you really be interested in staying there?”

John shrugged. “I don’t see why not. I mean, we don’t have a return ticket booked, and I can always find clinic work in London if we decide we want to stay. We’ll have a look at the flat after we fly in, and we can decide if we’d really like to settle down there. How’s that?” Settle down. Christ. They were properly planning a future together. John ought to have been scared, but he was actually more certain of this than he’d been of anything before.

Sherlock nodded, resting their head back down on John’s shoulder. “Perfect,” they said. “The address is 221B Baker Street. I’m sure you’ll love it. I think we both will.”

“Yeah,” John said with a soft smile. “I think so, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	4. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they go to London.

Sherlock had indeed managed to find them an absolutely ideal flat in central London. Their new landlady, Mrs. Hudson, exuded the sort of kind, motherly energy that made it impossible not to adore her.

“There’s a second bedroom upstairs,” she told them as they entered the flat for the first time, “if you’ll be needing two.”

John smiled at her. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he said, and Sherlock hummed their approval at John’s statement.

Somehow the flat was already cluttered with Sherlock’s things, and John wondered how Sherlock had even acquired so many possessions when they’d been essentially isolated in the forest for so long. But, as he looked around, John decided that it didn’t much matter how Sherlock’s acquisitions had arrived there, because seeing so many reflections of his partner in their new shared space simply made the flat feel that much more like home.

After they had both changed, John into a jumper and jeans he’d owned for ages and Sherlock into a well-fitting suit that Mycroft had apparently purchased for them, John took Sherlock out to the closest available park. It was a pleasantly warm day outside, the sun shining, a gentle breeze rolling through, and John was confident that both bees and dogs would be in abundance in the park. God, he couldn’t wait until he saw Sherlock’s face when they finally laid eyes on the creatures they so loved. Their walk to the park was a quiet one. It had been a long time since John had been back home, but this was Sherlock’s first time ever in a major city, and their eyes were darting around, taking in all that there was to see in this metropolis. John admired how they were able to become so absorbed in observing London while still maintaining their outwardly human appearance, and he fell a little bit more in love.

“Here,” John announced at last, tugging Sherlock over to a collection of flowers.

Sherlock opened their mouth, no doubt to make a sardonic comment about how they had, in fact, already seen flowers before, but the words never came out. John smirked, noting the exact moment that Sherlock laid eyes on first one fuzzy little bee, then another, then another, before it became clear that the flowers were alive with the tiny creatures.

Sherlock made an abortive movement with their hand, as if wanting to reach out and touch one.

John, knowing that Sherlock’s curiosity might eventually overcome their unwillingness to disturb the bees, said, “Touching them might scare them, and then they’ll sting you.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated noise, but dropped their hand to their side. John was glad, as he had no idea how a bee sting would affect someone like Sherlock, someone not of this world.

Sherlock dropped to their knees beside the patch of flowers, putting them at eye level with the bees. “I love them,” they said.

John was glad that the two of them had already reached the stage at which _I love you_ was commonly heard between them, or he might have been jealous of the bees for having any of Sherlock’s affection. Actually, scratch that, he was still a little bit jealous, but seeing Sherlock this awed, this wrapped up in one of their interests, made John’s heart soft in a way that melted the jealousy before it could affect him.

John waited patiently as Sherlock conducted a thorough examination of the bees, studying them with an intensity that was often reserved for more macabre puzzles. John was surprised that Sherlock hadn’t pulled a notebook out of their suit jacket to take notes, but he supposed that Sherlock’s mind probably served as a notebook in itself.

There was a snuffling from behind them, and they both turned around to see a bloodhound sniffing Sherlock’s shoes.

“Sorry about him,” the owner offered with an apologetic smile. She was tugging on her dog’s lead, but the animal refused to budge, too fascinated by Sherlock’s scent.

Sherlock looked about ready to cry. They reached a hand out toward the dog.

“Can we pet him?” John asked quickly, as it became clear that Sherlock was not going to be retracting their hand.

The owner laughed. “Yes, of course. His name’s Toby. He’s very friendly.”

And Toby was indeed very friendly. Sherlock turned around, still crouched, so that they could face Toby properly, and Toby took the opportunity to lick at Sherlock’s chin while being pet.

“He likes me,” Sherlock told John, eyes shining with a level of happiness that made John’s heart soften a little bit more.

God, he was a sap. He was going to get them a dog immediately if this was the reaction Sherlock had to being around them. He’d have to plant some bee-friendly flowers in the small box outside their new flat’s window as well. He wanted Sherlock to look this happy every day for the rest of their lives.

When they got back home, John was going to make Sherlock watch some romantic films, just to ensure that they understood the real steps in a typical, human relationship. He wasn’t going to propose marriage or anything like that quite yet, as they’d only been dating for a couple of months, but he knew that it likely wouldn’t be too far off. He would start with the dog and the bee-friendly plants, and he would get just about any other thing Sherlock decided that they wanted along the line, and they would find a way to establish a career as a consulting detective of some sort, and then, perhaps, marriage.

John wasn’t sure if he had ever before been giddy about his future, but there was no doubt that giddiness was precisely what he felt when he thought about all that lay ahead of the two of them. And this was only just the beginning.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any fic requests or just want to check me out on tumblr, you can find me [here!](https://beeeskneees.tumblr.com/)


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